So for eight or ten years she went driftin’ around here and there, battlin’ with room clerks and head waiters, hirin’ and firin’ nurses, packin’ trunks every month or so, and generally enjoyin’ the life of a health hunter, with her punctured romance trailin’ further and further behind her.  Even after father had his final spell and the last doctor’s bill was paid off, Myra kept on knockin’ around, claimin’ there wouldn’t be any fun makin’ a home just for herself.  Why not?  Her income was big enough, so she didn’t have to worry about rates.  All she asked was a room and bath somewhere, and when the season changed she moved on.  She’d got so she could tell you the bad points about every high-priced resort hotel from Catalina to Bar Harbor, and she knew so many veranda bores by sight that she could never shake all of ’em for more’n a day or so at a time.

“No wonder she’s grown waspy, living a life like that,” says Vee.

“Ain’t there any way of our duckin’ this continuous stingfest, though?” says I.

“There is something I’d like to try,” says Vee, “if you’ll promise to help.”

“If it’s a plan to put anything over on Miss Burr,” says I, “you can count on me.”

“Suppose it sounds silly?” says Vee.

“Comin’ from you,” says I, “it couldn’t.”

“Blarney!” says Vee.  “But you’ve said you’d help, so listen; we’ll give a Myra day.”

“A which?” says I.

“Come here while I whisper,” says she.

I expect that’s why it don’t sound more’n half nutty, too, delivered that way.  For with Vee’s chin on my shoulder, and some of that silky straw-colored hair brushin’ my face, and a slim, smooth arm hooked chummy through one of mine—­well, say; she could make a tabulated bank statement listen like one of Grantland Rice’s baseball lyrics.  Do I fall for her proposition?  It’s almost a jump.

“All right,” says I.  “Not that I can figure how it’s goin’ to work out, but if that’s your idea of throwin’ the switch on her, I’m right behind you.  Just give me the proper cues, that’s all.”

“Wait until I hear from my telegram,” says Vee.  “I’ll let you know.”

I didn’t get the word until Tuesday afternoon, when she ’phones down.

“He’s coming,” says Vee.  “Isn’t he the dear, though?  So we’ll make it to-morrow.  Everything you can possibly think of, remember.”

As a starter I’d spotted the elevator-boy up at Auntie’s.  Andrew Zink is his full name, and he’s a straight-haired smoke from the West Indies.  We’d exchanged a few confidential comments on Miss Burr, and I’d discovered she was just about as popular with him as she was with the rest of us.

“But for to-morrow, Andy,” says I, slippin’ him a whole half dollar, “we’re goin’ to forget it.  See?  It’ll be, ‘Oh, yes, Miss Burr.’ and ‘Certainly, Miss Burr,’ all day long, not omitting the little posie you’re goin’ to offer her first thing’ in the mornin’.”